Bookends
by Rhiannon A. Christy
Summary: A series of connected Sherlolly oneshots, all centered around Sherlock, Molly and books. Various ratings, mostly all fluffy and sweet.
1. Cold Feet

There was much to be said about life at Baker Street. It was normally a loud, chaotic place to visit, what with one of the residents being Sherlock Holmes. Most people were used to it, and by most one really means a select group consisting of only five individuals. A case could be made for six if one counted Mycroft Holmes, but Sherlock never did.

During most of the week anything from gun shots to minor explosions could be heard, and that was just while Sherlock worked cases. The noise and danger level increased by five when he wasn't, and by ten when he was bored. There was really only one time of the week that 221B was a calm and quite place, and that was Sunday mornings.

Sherlock had not always viewed Sunday morning as sacred, everyone already knowing his views on that subject. It wasn't until he had allowed a certain person into his life more fully that things changed for him.

When John had moved in Sherlock had to accommodate the man more than he would have liked, but after moving in his…pathologist he found himself adapting to such a degree that his past self would have had a coronary at the shock of it. Still among the hassles he did find a few of the changes pleasurable, Sunday mornings being one of them.

Sherlock took a breath in as he turned the page in his paper, one he had neglected for several days, the paper having been tossed atop a stack of other unread papers that Molly insisted in bringing home. This is what Sunday mornings consisted of, reading those papers or other literature in quiet alongside his…his pathologist.

This particular Sunday had started out as they all did, waking up with his nude form tangled up with Molly's, both of their skin still sticky from the activities of the night before. He had shivered and pulled the sheet up along their bodies, as the thing always found its way sliding off the edge of the bed. It hadn't helped that it was the middle of winter and the room was cold enough to freeze water, or at least it felt like it to his exposed skin.

Molly had woken then, turning so she could look up at him with that sleepy smile of hers that always sent his chest into spasms. She had bid him good morning, pressed a kiss against his lips, or at least in the vicinity as she was always a little off in the morning, and headed off to have a shower. He had followed moments after and much of the first part of the morning had been spent splashing about as they endeavored to get clean and dirty all over again.

Breakfast was nothing more than tea and a tin of biscuits as Sherlock had been experimenting again with human flesh and Molly had tossed what food they did have in the bin. Meals had been either brought in or taken at John and Mary's lately, and even though Molly hated to inconvenience them it was better than eating a cut of meat that had set on the same plate as a cut of human arm.

The two were now where they could always be found at that particular time on Sundays, curled up in front of the fire reading. The two made quite a sight to anyone that would have thought to walk in, Sherlock settled in his chair wearing neatly pressed trousers, a crisp white button down and one of his many silk dressing gowns. He could never be anything but perfectly put together, even having his feet tied neatly in his shoes and socks. Molly on the other hand looked like any woman that planned to remain home and expected no visitors; legs clad in faded yellow pajamas paired with one of Sherlock's few t-shirts.

Sherlock shook out his paper, allowing the top bit to fall back as he felt pressure on the seat of the chair beside him. There were things he just never could understand about Molly, such as why when there was a perfectly good chair opposite him she chose instead to lay on the floor like some dog.

He looked down from his paper to find a pair of small, un-socked feet resting against his legs, the petite toes wiggling like worms after a rainstorm. He followed the feet down the attached legs, his eyes resting on the form of his…pathologist laid out on the floor, her head resting atop a pillow. She was completely engrossed in her book, one of those inane romance novels she insisted on reading, no matter how many times he expressed his annoyance with them.

He couldn't understand why she would need to read such drivel when he thought they had a perfectly functional romantic life. It didn't matter to him that she agreed, with the romance in their life at least, he still couldn't understand how she could read it. Rotted the brain in his opinion. Still she read them, and he stopped using them to light the fires…well after finding himself locked out of the bedroom for an entire week that is.

"You might find it more comfortable to actually sit in a chair, then you wouldn't have to steal part of mine." Sherlock nudged her feet with his thigh as though to make a point. Though what he actually did was cause the woman to roll her eyes and set her book down on her chest.

"I like lying here, less neck pain." Molly nudged his thigh back, picking her book back up hoping to continue reading about Lady Marie and her doomed love with the handsome stable boy.

"But more arm pain, not to mention that can not be good on your eyes." Sherlock rolled his own eyes when she ignored him, not to mention when he caught a glance at the cover of her book. Porn pure and simple he thought, the woman on the cover was barely covered in her torn dress and the man that held her to him…he wasn't even sure there were any real men that looked like that.

Molly simply continued to read, knowing that her boyfriend…not that he liked being called that…had simply grown bored with his paper. She had tried to find other things for him to read, medical journals worked for awhile, until he started submitting corrections to the editors and their post had been filled with what could only be called hate mail.

She had tried mystery novels, though he normally read ten pages in, announced the murderer and then tossed the book away into an ever growing pile. She would later retrieve them to read in hopes to proving him wrong, only to find he had been right every time. Sci-fi, fantasy, all manner of novels passed through his hands and into the pile in the corner, all of them thrown away with a scoff as he found one fault after another with them. Only two things seemed to hold his interest, classical literature and newspapers.

Wiggling her toes again, she moved to shove her unclothed feet under his legs hoping to find a bit of warmth. She held back a giggle as this made him jerk and send a glare down to her.

"What? My feet are cold." She smiled at him, hoping he would not be annoyed with her.

"They wouldn't be if you didn't insist upon traipsing around here without socks on. It is winter and you know how cold the flat gets." Though his words were a bit harsh, he really couldn't be mad at her. Annoyed, yes, but not mad. She did have cute feet after all.

"Traipsing? Really? Anyway, I didn't have any clean. I wore my last pair yesterday and they got wet from snow on my way home from work." Of course they wouldn't have gotten wet had she worn the boots he had bought her, and the look he sent her way expressed that thought. It wasn't that she didn't like them, she loved them actually, but she knew they were expensive and she feared splashing blood on them.

"Wear the boots from now on Molly, that is after all why I bought them. Having them packed away in a box in the back of the wardrobe is more of a waste of money than a bit of blood splatter." Sometimes the woman just exasperated him. He had done much to ensure that she had a comfortable life, allowing her to focus on her desires and work instead of the stress that others dealt with.

He had asked her to move in with him, though if you asked Molly he had done no such thing and had moved all her things in while she was at work. He had been sure of her answer anyway, so he didn't understand what her problem was with him on that point. He had filled the wardrobe with new clothing, both for function and comfort as well as a few nice pieces for dinners and the like. He had given her all those things because he wanted to, in fact he enjoyed it, but she still was wary about wearing them in fear that he would be angry if she got so much as a stretched stitch in them.

"Fine, but don't complain when I come home and they're covered in all manner of gore." Molly hid her face behind her book so Sherlock couldn't see the frown turning her lips down. She knew it was a fruitless effort as Sherlock was bound to deduce it even when he couldn't actually see it.

"Molly, I'm not going to leave you just because you use the things I buy you, it is after all why I bought them in the first place. The fact is, if I can put up with your cold feet I can put up with anything." Sherlock smirked down at the woman at his feet, absentmindedly setting the paper aside to grab the book he had set down earlier. "Now move your feet, I'm getting a cramp in my legs."

Molly set down her book as she moved her feet from under his thigh to set once more beside him. When she looked up she had expected to find his smiling face turned down towards her, instead he was already engrossed in his book. She picked hers back up and continued where she left off, a broad smile turning up the corners of her mouth as she felt Sherlock's hand wrap around her feet. She would never admit it to him, but this was the real reason she refused to wear socks around the flat. Sherlock would deny it if she told anyone, but whenever she had cold feet he would hold them, both of her small feet wrapped up in one of his large hands. It was a sweetness and intimacy that surpassed everything they had ever done in the bedroom or outside of it.

Sherlock peeked out from behind his book. He would never admit it, but there was a reason why he never

* * *

insisted upon Molly donning socks on Sunday mornings. Nor would he admit it that he had several pairs of Molly's clean socks stashed away behind the headboard. Better her think it was her idea, less uncomfortable questions that way.

* * *

Author's Notes: Ok, so this is just a small collection of connected oneshots that deal with Molly and Sherlock and books in some manner. Each one will most likely have a different rating, probably nothing overly M and no NC-17. It really is just an excuse to write all the fluffy domestic fantasies I have involving books….and yes several of my fantasies, mild and erotic alike tend to involve books in some way, but such is the lot for a bookworm.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	2. Space

The problem with two bibliophiles living together was space. Shelf space to be more specific. A shelf never stayed empty for long before it was filled with books. Of course as each shelf filled up that meant a new shelf must be bought, and so the cycle would continue. There was no truer an example of this than 221B and its occupants, Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes.

The flat had already been filled to the brim with books before Molly had moved in, with her addition of several boxes worth, 221B had begun to look more like an old library than an actual home.

Shelves could be found in every room, each filled to bursting with books. There was even a large unit mounted above the toilet; a shock for any visitors that entered only to be confronted with entire volumes on serial killers. Not even their bedroom was exempt. There were more shelves than empty wall.

With all of those shelves one would think that there would be little room for argument over space….and one would be wrong.

Molly stood in front of the shelving unit beside the wardrobe, her hands pressed tightly on her hips. She had just had the damn thing installed two days ago, and already Sherlock had it filled. She sneered at the thick bound volumes taking up room on her expensive unit, wondering why he couldn't have placed them on the shelves he had put up in the hall.

This always happened, every damn time. After a moment Molly leaned over and gathered all the books she could fit in her arms and stomped out of the room. Not caring what happened to them, she plopped them down in his chair before returning to repeat the process until every last book of Sherlock's was off her shelf.

She hummed to herself as she worked to carefully organize her new books; a set of antique dictionaries that her mother had been secretly collecting for her for the past few years. She smiled and with a flourish she placed the last volume at the perfect angle, setting a small glass paperweight in front to hold it up.

A slow, evil little smile took over one corner of her mouth as she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. She had no need to leave the room to know what was happening at that very moment. Sherlock would have entered the room, whipped off his coat and scarf with a grace that still left her spinning, hung them up before turning around and stopping in his tracks.

Counting to five Molly waited for the inevitable explosion, and no sooner had she finished Sherlock's booming voiced echoed through the flat.

"Molly Hooper!"

Molly giggled, patted the spines of her newest acquisition, and headed out of the room.

Sherlock stood, feet planted firmly in front of his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He heaved in a deep breath, trying to keep his temper down. He wouldn't be having as much trouble as he was had it not been for the fact that this was far from the first time he had returned home to find his books piled on the chair. In fact this now made it the fifth time in that month alone.

"Yes Sherlock?" Molly leaned against the wall, watching as her boyfriend tried to regulate his breathing. She could see his jaw ticking from where she stood, his arms falling down to his sides as he clenched and unclenched his hands over and over again. Had she not been who she was she would have been worried for her life. As it was she only felt a hint of fear for her beloved books; Sherlock wasn't past burning books if he thought it was absolutely necessary…The heathen.

"What reason do you think you have this time for throwing about my books?" She always had a reason, not that he accepted them. The first time she had been angry because he had removed a few of her books in order to use the shelf, the second because he had relegated Toby to the living room in order to place a shelving unit. The third had been a tantrum about the content contained in the books; though after a few long nights sequestered away in their room she no longer protested. In fact she had bought her very own unit in order to fill with those very type of books.

"I don't think, I know I have a reason. A perfectly valid reason I might add." Molly pushed off of the wall, coming to stand in front of Sherlock with hands resting tightly atop her hips.

"I'll be the judge of that." Glaring down at her he re-crossed his arms over his chest.

"They were on my new unit, my unit for my books!" Moving one hand up, Molly poked Sherlock in the middle of the chest with her last word. Let him invalidate that!

"I needed the space, I didn't think you would twist your knickers over sharing." She never seemed to have a problem with sharing anything else with him. Alright, so he understood…a little…she had bought the damnable thing and he did recall her telling him that the shelves were off limits. Still, he had just finally found those books, and they were very old and very expensive and seeing them on the floor was about to give him a coronary.

"Maybe if you were a little more organized with your own shelf space you would have had the room. But the fact remains that that was my unit, for my books, and you had no right to steal it!" Again she poked him in the chest, two extra times just to get her point across.

"Commandeered, I commandeered it. I never steal." His glare moved from her down to where she had poked him. He never did understand why she thought she could take liberties with his body as she did, at least those sort of liberties.

"I don't care what you call it, it still doesn't give you the right to use it." She thought about poking him again, but she figured three was probably enough and just kept her hands on top of her hips.

"What am I supposed to do with my books then?" Sherlock flung his arms open to gesture towards the pile on his chair.

"Buy a bloody shelf of your own!" Deciding that she might have been wrong, she poked him once again.

"Would you mind stop poking me? I used your shelf, there is no reason to become violent." He knew he would have a bruise by the evening, small and rounded like the tip of her finger. He was just glad she wasn't one of those women that wore their nails excessively long.

"Well if you would bloody well learn for a change I wouldn't have to resort to violence! Maybe I should just poke you until it finally sinks in to that great thick head of yours." With that Molly stabbed her finger harshly into the middle of his chest, over and over again.

The two would have made a comical sight to anyone that had entered the flat at that moment; Sherlock standing stoically in the middle of the room with his girlfriend frantically poking him in the chest as though trying to press a stubborn button…or poke a hole straight through him.

Sherlock raised a brow as he watched his…pathologist abuse his person. He should have been annoyed, but the look of absolute concentration on her face, the lip between her teeth and crinkle of her brow cooled his ire quickly. Now he only had to keep himself from laughing, something he was finding hard at the moment.

"Molly…Molly…alright Molly, if you do not stop this instant I shall have to punish you." If his voice had grown darker, thicker as he spoke the last bit he just ignored it.

Molly on the other hand could not, not when his deep voice dipped even further, smoothing over her like spiced honey. She knew that voice, it was her favorite voice of his. If he thought speaking to her in such a way would stop her, he was dead wrong.

She pulled back, her eyes lifting to meet his with defiance as she smirked and drove her hand forward one more time.

"That's it!" Sherlock flung out a hand to capture hers only to find Molly already dashing off away from him, giggling as she ran into the kitchen. He followed after her, his own low laugh filling the flat as they moved around and around like a couple of children playing games.

Molly ducked out of the kitchen and into the hall, darting quickly up the stairs. Sadly she had miscalculated how much further ahead she was, and had to catch onto the wall as Sherlock grabbed her ankle. She slid down until she was kneeling on the steps, Sherlock now curled around her body. His breath tickled the side of her neck and sent goose pimples up and down her arms.

"Caught you, so what should your punishment be…hm?" Removing one of his hands from the step he moved the hair from her neck to allow him to press nipping kisses along her flesh.

"Oh, but what if I promise to be a good girl from now on?" Molly turned her head to the side, holding in a moan as Sherlock bit down slightly harder. Her enjoyment of a bit of pleasurable pain had been a pleasant surprise for Sherlock when they had first become intimate, and an unpleasant shock to their friends when they had walked in on them utilizing Sherlock's riding crop.

"You're never a good girl…not that I mind in the least." Sherlock felt Molly laugh before he heard her, and couldn't help but chuckle along side of her. He wound his arms around her waist, pressing his chest flush with her back as he continued to nip at her neck.

Now, it was not unusual for the two to block out everything around them when they got a bit amorous. This was one of the various problems their friends had with them, the ridding crop incident had been only one of the many times the couple had been walked in on. It seemed that they never learned, mostly as John and Mary walked up the stairs to find the couple still kneeling on what was once his stairs.

"My God! Do you two ever actually use your bed?!" John pressed his hand to his eyes, thankful that they left Lizzie down with Mrs Hudson. Beside him Mary just chuckled as Sherlock curled himself further around Molly so she was hidden.

"Like you're one to talk!" Mary smacked John's arm lightly, giggling as his eyes went wide.

"Mary! Don't you dare…" He wasn't exactly innocent, but he didn't feel like discussing it with Sherlock and Molly.

"Not that this isn't a delightful visit, but do you two think you could maybe come back later, I'm in the middle of punishing Molly and am not too keen on an audience." Sherlock winced when Molly reached behind her and poked him in the side, but paid her no more heed as he glared at his two friends.

John turned around quickly, already two steps down before he heard his wife laughing and wishing the couple above well. He couldn't understand why he never called before coming over, it always ended the same…every damn time.

Not wasting any time once he felt Mary beside him, he grabbed her hand and rushed down to grab his daughter and leave. He really didn't want to hear what was coming next.

Once the sound of the door below shutting reached his ears, Sherlock nipped at Molly's shoulder before standing up and pulling her with him. Molly dusted down her shirt and leaned against the wall, trying as hard as she could not to laugh.

"You are a bad man Sherlock Holmes." She poked him again, this time in the side where she knew he was ticklish and took off before he had straightened back up.

"And you, Molly Hooper, are far too naughty for your own good!" A full smile spread across his lips as he took off after her, the pile of old books on his chair forgotten…at least for the moment. There was still the issue of shelf space that needed sorting out…but not just yet.

* * *

A.N: Oh look, playful Sherlock and Molly! And seriously, shelf space is sacred and it is an evil thing to steal it! This is a big problem in my family, my Grandfather is always stealing everyone's shelves and filling them up with random junk. And I do mean random.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	3. Sniffles Part One, Molly

Chapter Three: Sniffles Part 1; Molly

* * *

Molly groaned low in her throat, the sound moving past the rawness causing her to go into a coughing fit. She grasped the blanket that had slipped down to her elbows, pulling it up until only her forehead and the very tips of her ears could be seen.

She hated being sick, there was only one thing she hated worse, and that was being sick during her monthly. Thankfully she was spared that particular hell this time. Still, the flu was no picnic, and Molly had just about enough of it after the first three days. Now all she wanted was a hot bath to wash the sick away, a fresh set of clothes, and the ability to actually breathe without sounding like she had a couple of whistles stuffed up her nose. Unfortunately she was currently in a relationship with Sherlock, and, funnily enough, he turned out to be a bit of a mother-hen.

"Molly, Mrs Hudson just brought up your soup. I want you to at least finish a bowl this time; you barely touched your breakfast. You need to eat in order to get better." Sherlock pushed open the door with his hip, carefully edging his way into the room with his hands full of tray.

The lump in the middle of the bed groaned, Molly barely having enough energy to even roll her eyes. Sherlock had been forcing food down her since she developed her first few sniffles, claiming she wouldn't get better unless she ate everything put before her. The thing was she knew he worried for her and he was just too inept to actually articulate it to in anything other than his mollycoddling.

"I touched it, but then I also remember throwing it all back up not ten minutes later. Sherlock, I really don't think I'm able to keep anything down, not even simple broth." It wasn't that she wasn't hungry, her stomach had growled at her several times already. The problem was that she was having trouble just keeping down her medications. It had always been that way, ever since she was a child.

"You have to try; anyway, Mrs Hudson made you some tea she swears will help with your nausea. I'm not exactly sure what is in it, but at this point it is this or I take you to hospital." He set the tray down on the bedside table before setting down beside the lump of blankets otherwise known as Molly Hooper.

"If you even think about taking me out of this bed I will cut your bollocks off and turn them into earrings." So maybe she wasn't the most pleasant patient, but no one could blame her after spending two minutes with nursemaid Sherlock.

"Then eat your lunch and drink your tea." Taking the blankets in hand, Sherlock pulled down the thick mass until he could see the curled up form of his…pathologist. She had always been small compared to him, short and thin as she was, but seeing her twisted up in his sheets like she was she resembled a child.

"Fine, but if the tea doesn't work I'm getting sick all over you." Molly grumbled as she worked to sit herself up, leaning back against the headboard. She tried to sneer at Sherlock when he set the tray, complete with bowl and cup, on her lap, but all she could muster was a tired grimace.

"You would do best to direct it the other direction, unless of course you want to destroy your book. I wouldn't mind this piece of trash being put where it belongs, but I think you would beg to differ." Sherlock held up an old and battered book in his hands. It was one he had seen Molly read several times since she moved into 221B, and one he was pretty sure was her favorite.

Molly blinked at Sherlock, down to the book and back up at her boyfriend. He was holding up a battered copy of "Mr Owl and Lady Pussycat" one of her…naughtier books. Actually it was probably the one of her books that could actually rightfully be called porn. She had found the book in an old and dusty corner bookshop when she was seventeen, bought it and promptly hid it from her parents.

"Sherlock, why do you have that book?" She knew he hated her choice in pleasure reading, but everything he had read of hers thus far had been pretty tame. She couldn't begin to imagine what he would think about that book; not that he really had any room to talk, not with the entire shelving unit filled with sex manuals he had chosen.

"I thought I would wave it in front of you a few times. What do you think I'm going to do: I'm going to read it to you. Now, don't ask silly questions and eat." Sherlock settled back against the headboard and cracked open the book, his eyes skimming the first few sentences before slamming the book shut and looking down at the small woman beside him.

"What?" Molly could feel her cheeks turn a bright red at the wide-eyed look Sherlock was giving her. He just had to choose that particular book, out of the hundreds she owned he had to choose that one.

"Molly, besides the fact that I'm pretty sure what Mr Owl did is completely impossible physically; I want to know why you need a book like this." He could hardly believe Molly; his Molly read such…literary trash. What had the author been thinking, jumping right into it like that?

"Like I've told you before, it has nothing to do with our sex life. I find nothing lacking, I just enjoy a naughty story every now and then." No one would believe her if she told them that Sherlock Holmes could be insecure, but he had his moments. Oh, he was confident when it came to his work, but in his personal life he was just as unsure as every other human on the planet.

"I never said anything about finding anything lacking." Sherlock squirmed on the edge of the bed, her fingers tightening against the book still in his hand.

"No, but I just wanted to make sure you understood that." Molly placed one of her hands on Sherlock's, squeezing until he looked down at her. "So, are you going to read to me or what?"

"If you actually eat, then yes." He rolled his eyes as Molly picked up her spoon in a salute and shoved it into her mouth. With a shake of his head he opened the book back up. From now on he would make sure to skim through a book before he did anything like this again.

Reading the first two sentences to himself he thought he better receive a really good reward for this; a damn good reward.

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Author's Note: So, raise your hand if you would do anything to have that voice all to yourself reading an erotica book.

Anyway, this is a two parter, the next bit will be Sick!Sherlock. Now I have a few other ideas for this series, right now at least six more, but if there is anything you would like to see in this universe please do send me a message.

**Disclaimer:**** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


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